Evan Hunter - Candyland

"What rules are you talking about, Jimmy?"

"I have these rules," he says. "No hookers, that's my first rule. No topless bars. No escort services. No phone sex. I have ten rules."

"Where'd you get these rules, Jimmy?"

"I made them up. To keep myself in line. Well, this job, you know. No pornography, no R-rated cable movies, no adult magazines, no singles newspapers — ten rules altogether. This world we live in, you need rules. You read the papers, there are twelve-year-old girls think nothing of giving blowjobs, they're like goodnight kisses to them. Read the newspapers, Emma, I'm not making this up. You see some of these young girls today…"

He shakes his head, lets the sentence trail.

"What, Jimmy?"

"No staring," he says, "that's another rule. I stare sometimes. It's a real problem. No staring is at the bottom of my list, but it's truly a problem. With me, it's a very real problem. These are very tempting times we live in, not that I'm trying to excuse myself. But I find myself staring a lot. At girls on the subway, at girls going home from school. I even stared at you, Emma, I'm sorry about that. Remember when you reached over the seat for your bag yesterday? I stared at you, I looked up your skirt, Emma, I'm sorry about that. But staring at girls is one thing, jerking off Lois Ford on the phone is one thing. Killing Cathy is another.

"I'm trying to tell you I know the kind of person I am, I'm aware of my shortcomings, I'm trying to do something about it. That's why I made up the rules. My mother had a lot of rules, too, when I was growing up. Rules are good for you. She was a gorgeous woman, my mother, red hair and green eyes… well, “Did Your Mother Come from Ireland,” do you know the song? A gorgeous woman, but she had her rules, you know, oh boy, did she have her rules. She wasn't a tall woman by modern-day standards, my mother, but she gave an impression of height, well, what was she, five-six, five-seven, this was tall for women back then, wasn't it? Back then when I was still a little kid? My oldest memory… well, I'm not even sure it was a memory, maybe it was a dream, it sometimes seems like a dream, all of it seems like a fuckin dream."

I don't want to hear this, Emma thinks, and remembers what Morgan said when they were coming back to Manhattan on the Brooklyn Bridge.

Most of them were abused one way or another when they were kids, they got bad memories go back half a century, all of them sex-related.

"She was getting dressed for a party, and I was in her bedroom, watching. She always wore the most beautiful lingerie

I really don't want to hear this, she thinks. I don't care if your mother marched around the house naked, or your father beat you with a stick, or your sister entertained sailors while you watched, I do not care what trauma or traumas caused you to become the fucking rapist and killer you are today, I do not care at all. I do not care what caused Andrew to fuck the Swedish nanny, either, if he was fucking her, I do not care what caused him to fuck Felicia, whoever she was or may still be, I simply do not care what causes men to do the awful, hurtful things they do. So don't tell me about your mother, I do not care, I do not care!

"“I'm going to catch you, Jamie,” she used to say, “catch you, Jamie, catch you”…"

I don't want to know, Emma thinks.

"Tell me what happened," she says.

This is what you say to rape victims, she realizes. Tell me what happened.

"I'm not even sure," he says.

"Then tell me what you think happened."

He shakes his head.

"Tell me, okay?" she says. "Come on, Jimmy. Get it off your chest. Please. Tell me."

She holds her breath. Waits. Waits. Across the table, she can hear Manzetti's shallow breathing. Yellow fog presses in against the window panes. From the walls everywhere in the loft, the framed photographs of Fiona Morgan seem to be watching, listening attentively.

He nods.

She waits.

He keeps nodding.

"I was walking her home," he says. "She had her arm through mine…"

She has her arm through his, everything seems the same as always, nothing different… well, she's wearing a skirt. She usually wears jeans when she leaves work, but tonight — it's four in the morning, but it's still dark, and he considers it the nighttime, a dangerous time — tonight she's wearing a short skirt and a kind of loose blouse, no buttons, not a T-shirt, a tunic? No bra. She has very small breasts, you know. Very small. His daughter is more developed, to tell the truth, and she's only thirteen.

"It was very hot that night, do you remember how hot it was that night? The rain had stopped, a fog was rolling in. We walked through the fog, her arm through mine, everything seemed normal. I wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary, everything seemed just the way it always was. I guess I asked her… no. I was about to say I asked her if she'd like to come to my place for the weekend, but I couldn't have because I knew Fiona would be there, I knew I had visitation this weekend. So it wasn't that. That wasn't how Fiona got in the conversation. I think what it was, actually, well… what I think happened was she told me straight out she'd changed the lock on her door. Bam. Straight between the eyes. I changed the lock on my door, Jimmy…"

He thinks at first some John is maybe bothering her, following her home from the salon, something like that. He thinks she's asking him to help her with a problem she's having. Why'd you change the lock? he asks her. She tells him she changed the lock because she doesn't want to see him anymore. I don't want you to bother me anymore, she says. Don't come around anymore, she's telling him. I don't want you hanging around anymore. Don't wait for me outside anymore. I don't want you touching me anymore. I'm not your goddamn daughter.

"Well, I'll tell you, I honestly didn't know how Fiona had got in the conversation all of a sudden unless she was suggesting — well, I don't know what she was suggesting. I can tell you that ever since Fiona became a young lady, I've been completely circumspect. We're alone together a lot, and I know how impressionable young girls are, so I'm very careful about that, even though I find it strange that I used to wash her little bottom when she was a baby and now I have to watch my P's and Q's with her — well, they grow up, I guess. What I'm trying to tell you is I couldn't understand why Cathy was saying I don't want you touching me anymore, I'm not your goddamn daughter. What the hell was that supposed to mean? I've never laid a finger on her. Never touched her. Ever.

"This was very threatening, Emma. I don't know why. The idea of being locked out, of being told she didn't want to see me again, I found this very threatening. I'm a man who knows how to take care of himself, I've knocked many a cheap thief on his ass, but when she told me I was being locked out, she didn't want to see me again, didn't want me to touch her again, she wasn't my goddamn daughter, I found all this very threatening. Very upsetting. Because if I couldn't see Cathy anymore, if I didn't have Cathy, then… then… don't you see how threatening that could be? How upsetting? Not having Cathy there to… to…? What would I do?. How would I manage to… to…?"

He shakes his head.

"Go on, Jimmy. Tell me what happened."

"I slapped her."

"Why?"

"I don't know why. She was scaring me. I grabbed her wrist. I said, I don't want to hear any more of that! I don't care what you want, you'll do what I tell you to do! She started screaming. I slapped her again

The fog is swirling everywhere around them as they struggle on the street corner. Someone is approaching, a black woman carrying a shopping bag. She stops dead on the sidewalk. Cathy is still screaming. He slaps her again, starts dragging her up the street. The black woman turns and runs. He drags Cathy by the wrist, tells her they're going home, never mind this shit…